still that was a great song to to pick...the meaning...the emotion...its all there

weds morning I shall add my piece

till then here are the Cardigans unchanged:

Hey, what did you hear me sayYou know the difference it makesWhat did you hear me sayYes, I said it's fine beforeI don't think so no moreI said it's fine beforeI've changed my mindI take it backErase and rewind'Cause I've been changing my mindI've changed my mindSo where did you see me goIt's not the right way, you knowWhere did you see me goNo, it's not that I don't knowI just don't want it to growIt's not that I don't knowI've changed my mindI take it back

Great job guys. Lever and Doc - your contrasting additions were both excellent. While every instinct I have tells me that Lever is right, I will continue to think like Doc until I don't have that option anymore. That might only be until tomorrow....but maybe not....

I realize that my hopes are very likely in vain. I don't care. If they lose then it won't crush me any more than if I had chosen not to believe. If they lose, I'll survive - we Canucks fans have plenty of experience at that. But for me, I'll cross that bridge if I come to it. In the mean time I'll sit here with my own shit eating grin dreaming about the opportunity that always comes in dire situations - the opportunity for greatness.

One of the few pieces of poetry from school that stuck with me:

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had hereBut one ten thousand of those men in EnglandThat do no work to-day!

KING. What’s he that wishes so?My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;If we are mark’d to die, we are enowTo do our country loss; and if to live,The fewer men, the greater share of honour.God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;It yearns me not if men my garments wear;Such outward things dwell not in my desires.But if it be a sin to covet honour,I am the most offending soul alive.No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honourAs one man more methinks would share from meFor the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,That he which hath no stomach to this fight,Let him depart; his passport shall be made,And crowns for convoy put into his purse;We would not die in that man’s companyThat fears his fellowship to die with us.This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,And rouse him at the name of Crispian.He that shall live this day, and see old age,Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.”Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,And say “These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.”Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,But he’ll remember, with advantages,What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,Familiar in his mouth as household words-Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.This story shall the good man teach his son;And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,From this day to the ending of the world,But we in it shall be remembered-We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;For he to-day that sheds his blood with meShall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,This day shall gentle his condition;And gentlemen in England now-a-bedShall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day..